


Negative Space

by SadCannibalNoises



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Please come back another day if you're seeking plot, Post-Finale, Pretty much just straight-up porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:19:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4833461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadCannibalNoises/pseuds/SadCannibalNoises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their therapy before Hannibal's incarceration had not, generally, touched on the topic of Will’s sex life, alone or partnered.  They talked around it, creating a sort of negative space where his sex life would be if he had one, and maybe that told Hannibal all he needed to know about it at the time. Circumstances have changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There’s such a thing as being too far into each other’s heads, Will thinks as he watches Hannibal move around the library, choosing music, pouring wine, picking out a book.  Mostly he watches Hannibal’s hands manipulating corks, the record player, trailing over the spines of books.

The man’s hands drive him absolutely crazy. They’re so irritatingly good at everything they do.  It makes him wonder what else they could do.  It makes him want to pin them down at the wrists and stop them from doing anything at all.

But the two of them seem to be stuck.  They’ve mostly worked through the worst of the “Hey-sorry-I-tried-to-kill-us-both-after-that-really-sexy-murder-and-now-we’re-on-the-run-from-the-law-together” awkwardness, and they seem to be safe enough in their current hideaway, but you don’t go through an experience like that and come out the other side with your relationship unchanged.  Things are unsettled.

He’s pretty sure Hannibal still loves him. Wants him. Is too polite to do anything about it uninvited.  He’ll frame Will, stab him, cut open his skull, kill with him, drown with him – but he won’t open that particular door unless asked.  Someday Will’s going to write a monograph on Hannibal’s moral code, to be published posthumously, because it’s completely fascinating.

Will, for his part, is pretty much done pretending to himself or anyone else that he doesn’t want the things he wants.  That got him several stab wounds, a broken arm, a fake death, a passport in a fake name, estrangement from his entire life, and a recurring dream of Francis Dolarhyde’s dying moments.  But that doesn’t mean he knows what to do about this particular situation.

It’s not that he didn’t know he was bisexual long before Hannibal Lecter walked into his meeting with Jack Crawford that first day, or that he had any problem with it.  There’d been a while in his early twenties that he thought he might be nothing-in-particular-sexual but eventually he’d figured out it was just rare for him to have that connection with someone.  His tastes are very particular. But when he does find someone, the particular factory model of that person’s body doesn’t matter that much.  In theory.  He just hasn’t had much of a chance to put the theory into practice with men. 

And now he’s too deep into Hannibal’s head to make a move.  He wants to. Hannibal wants him to. But he’s sort of enjoying torturing Hannibal with not making the move. And Hannibal’s sort of enjoying being tortured. And Will can feel that. And he’s uncertain about whether what seems appealing in theory would seem appealing in practice. And Hannibal is uncertain about Will’s uncertainty. And the only thing more awkward than getting into bed with someone and finding out you don’t really want to be there after all, is when the “someone” is trapped in a safe house with you so there’s no going home the next morning and conveniently losing their number. 

It’s all one big whirlwind of unspoken desire and denial and not really being sure whose feelings are mirroring whose and the end result is paralysis.  These are the times when it would be a lot easier for Will not to have his gift for being a mirror.  If he were a less complicated person he’d just follow Hannibal into the damn shower some morning.  But then, if he were a less complicated person, Hannibal wouldn’t be as interested in Will as he is. He’d probably have ended up in tidily labeled plastic bags in Hannibal’s freezer years ago. 

He sinks further into his chair, sips at his whiskey, and watches Hannibal choose a book and retire to his own chair.  Hannibal opens the book gently, careful not to crack the spine (but Will’s seen those hands crack a human spine), fanning the pages delicately until he finds the one he wants (how delicate were those fingers when they pumped Will’s heart back to life after the cliff?), and settle intently into his reading (so single-minded, is he like that in all things?).

The whole thing is incredibly unfair.  Will closes his eyes and imagines things he might do, were he not quite so very much…well, himself.  They pass another evening mostly in silence, the turn of book pages, the clink of glass on tabletop, crickets through the open window. It's late by the time Will finally comes up with his plan.

* * * * *

“I’d like to resume my therapy.”

It’s early afternoon, and Will’s slouched in the doorway of Hannibal’s room, almost theatrically casual.  Just a normal, everyday request.  He can tell he’s caught Hannibal off-guard, which is a rarity to be relished.

“I wasn’t aware you felt yourself in need of further therapeutic attention.  I thought you had adjusted to our altered circumstances.”  Hannibal’s temporizing, feeling around the edges of Will’s mind to determine where this is going.  Will can almost feel the prying.  He takes a certain vicious delight in shutting it down.  His empathy can be a weapon when he chooses to use it that way, and he uses it now to mirror Hannibal’s calm blandly back at him.

“I believe I have, for the most part. But there are a few things bothering me.”

“If you have troubles I would be happy to talk them through with you.  We don’t have to do it in the guise of therapy.”

“Please, Hannibal.  I’d be much more comfortable if we could resume our old roles.”  Will has to suppress a smile at that line, which he was hoping he’d have a chance to use.  To trap Hannibal in his own courtesy – he won’t refuse Will something he’s asked for so sincerely. His inconvenient compassion for Will won’t allow it.

And it doesn’t, although a shadow of a troubled expression flickers across Hannibal’s features. He’s composed again almost instantly.  “Shall we talk now?”

“I don’t want to keep you any longer.  Before dinner, maybe?”

“Very well.  Before dinner, then.”

Will can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him as he leaves.  He’s quite sure that Hannibal isn’t going to get a lick of work done the rest of the afternoon, and he’s not even slightly sorry.  He grabs his jacket and goes out for a long walk to work off some nervous energy.

* * * * *

They meet up again in the early evening, back in the library.  Hannibal sits in his usual chair and Will makes himself comfortable on the sofa. He’s had a drink to steady his nerves a bit, but not so much that it’ll go to his head.  He takes a deep breath and dives in.  “As I mentioned earlier, there are some things bothering me about our current arrangement.  To start with, how long do you think we’ll go on here?”

Hannibal surely knows this is mostly a conversational feint; they’ve talked about this before.  “It’s hard to say.  I think we should keep an eye on the FBI watch list for a while and see if they release any more information about their search for us.  A few more weeks, at least.  A few months might not hurt to be absolutely sure.”

“You don’t think we might drive each other crazy by then?”

Hannibal allows a smile at that. “I believe given our mutual lack of success at killing each other so far, neither of us is likely to manage it in the next few months.  We should both survive the ordeal.”

“Does it bother you, being stuck here with me?”

“This isn’t my therapy session, Will. Why do you ask?  Does it bother you?”

Will puts a foot up on the sofa.  Mostly because he knows it drives Hannibal crazy and he wants him distracted.  “It bothers me a little.  I’m used to my privacy.  There’s a reason I chose to live out in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’m sorry, Will.  When I originally purchased this building I hadn’t intended it as a hideout for two.  I hadn’t expected you.”  Hannibal says that almost fondly and Will knows he means it as a compliment.  Being a surprise in Hannibal Lecter’s life is difficult and rare.  Being a surprise, and staying one, means you probably won’t get eaten.

Will intends to keep being surprising.  He looks away now, and it’s partly an act of shyness and partly unexpectedly the real thing. “It’s all right. I don’t mind usually, it’s just…there are some things…one usually wants privacy for.  Doors only do so much good when the walls are this thin.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows rise slightly. Their therapy before Hannibal's incarceration had not, generally, touched on the topic of Will’s sex life, alone or partnered.  They talked around it, creating a sort of negative space where his sex life would be if he had one, and maybe that told Hannibal all he needed to know about it at the time. “I hadn’t considered. I’m sorry. That was discourteous of me.  I wouldn’t want you to be ashamed of ordinary biological drives, Will. I can’t do anything about the walls but I promise you I would do my best to ignore or forget anything I should overhear.”

“Did you ignore me? Last night?”  It’s blunt and surprising and meant to be, to be sure he gets a truthful reaction.  He’s quite sure Hannibal did overhear him last night.  Will’s not usually one to make noises when it’s just him and his hand, but he’d wanted to be heard, in preparation for this conversation. He’d left the door open just a crack. He’d thought about the possibility that Hannibal would stand outside and listen.  The thought had been unexpectedly stimulating and in the end his cry of release had been real and not the performance he'd intended it to be.

Hannibal’s flustered, actually flustered, just for a moment before he gathers himself but it’s possibly the most adorable thing Will’s ever seen.  He instantly wants to see more of it.  His nerves are fading fast, replaced by a spreading warmth throughout his body and an awareness that he is in control of this conversation. It's an unusual feeling with Hannibal and one Will could get used to.  Hannibal eventually nods, reluctantly. “I would not have said anything if you hadn’t asked.  We all have our drives, Will. They’re nothing to be embarrassed about, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“I’m not embarrassed, exactly. As you said, we have drives.  It’s more that I was thinking about the situation and it occurred to me that if we have drives, and we don’t have privacy, then perhaps we should try the alternative. Company.” He hadn’t intended to be quite _this_ blunt, but the conversation is gathering its own momentum.  There’s a crackle in the air, and as soon as he wonders whether Hannibal feels it, he’s absolutely certain Hannibal does.  “I wondered if the fact that your psychiatric license has probably been revoked by now would leave you at liberty to take a patient to bed. Dr. Lecter.”  He unleashes a quick, wicked grin there, with the intention and delightful effect of seeing Hannibal flustered again.

“I don’t think that’s the relevant question, Will.”  Hannibal’s stalling for time again, and Will barely needs to exercise his gift at all to know that Hannibal is elated, aroused, amused and alarmed.  “The state ethics board is unlikely to examine anything that transpires here. Also, I ate two of them.”

Will is perfectly aware Hannibal’s said that to jolt Will into remembering who and what Hannibal is, to give him a chance to take back the request. As if Will could possibly have forgotten.  He remembers. He doesn’t, at the moment, care. He watches Hannibal watch him not caring. 

“So what is the relevant question, Hannibal?  I’m asking you to come to bed with me.  I think you want to. It took me a while to figure out what I wanted, but I want it too.  I’m pretty much throwing myself at you here, so it would be great if you would catch me. Or tell me if I’m making a complete idiot out of myself and I’ll go find another cliff to jump off.”

“You’re not making an idiot out of yourself.”  Something slips behind Hannibal’s eyes, something Will hasn’t seen there in the months they’ve been on the run, and a little not-unpleasant shiver runs down his spine.  Will’s not sure if it’s his own feeling or one he’s mirroring from Hannibal.  “The relevant question is why now, and why this way?”

“Now because I wanted to be as sure as I can be.  And this way because I didn’t know how else to do it.  This is how we started out.  It felt right to go back to it.  But I think our session’s up. “

Hannibal’s motionless. Will stands up.  He’s not used to playing this role – he’s tended not to be clued-in enough to anyone else’s social cues to be the seducer – but it’s more intoxicating than the whiskey and he’s better at it than he expected to be, at least with Hannibal.  He heads for the door, untucking his shirt along the way.  He pauses to drop a hand onto Hannibal’s shoulder, letting his finger trail lightly down the back of Hannibal’s neck.  “It turns out I don’t really want dinner.  I think I’m going to bed early.  I’ll leave the door open again if you’d like to join me.  If not, we’ll chalk this conversation up to my fragile mental state and pretend it never happened.”

He doesn’t turn to look back on his way out the door and up the stairs, and he doesn’t hear footsteps right away, but he’s pretty sure he baited that hook well.  He flips on the light in his room, leaves the door open, and starts to unbutton buttons.

One button…two buttons…

He’s just starting the third when he hears footsteps on the stairs.  He knows perfectly well Hannibal can move silent as a cat when he wants to.  This is a final courtesy. A chance to shut the door.

Will turns to the open door, toys with his third button idly, and waits.


	2. Chapter 2

When Hannibal follows Will through the doorway, that barely-glimpsed thing is behind his eyes again, dark and hot and wanting and completely at odds with his typical self-control.  Will very much wants to see more of that.  

Part of him wants to stay where he is, on the far side of the room, and make Hannibal come to him.  But he’s touch-starved and too ready to wait, so he’s across the room and on Hannibal as soon as he enters Will’s room.

Surely they’ve casually touched at some point in their weeks at the cabin, handing each other a cup of coffee or passing in the hallway, but it doesn’t feel like it at that moment.  Will feels like he hasn’t been touched in forever.  Without thinking about it he has a hand clenched in Hannibal’s hair and he’s kissing Hannibal like his life depends on it.

Hannibal kisses him back, long and deep, a kiss he’s been saving for months or more likely years.  They break just enough for a gasp of air and then they’re at it again, Hannibal’s hands coming up around Will’s back warm and solid and gentle like he’s touching something precious.  His mouth isn’t as gentle; he tugs at Will’s lower lip with his teeth and Will has a moment of feeling devoured. It’s not as unsettling as might be expected, given the circumstances.

Hannibal makes a low, guttural noise and moves his lips downward from Will’s mouth, burying his face in Will’s neck.  He tastes the tender skin there and Will goes a bit wobbly in the knees. He’s not sure if the sensation is his own or Hannibal’s.  He’s always resisted relaxing the reins of his brain’s empathetic tendencies with lovers.  It seems too one-sided and intrusive, seeing into their wants and needs and reactions, while they’re denied his.  That self-restraint seems pointless with Hannibal.  They’re just one long hall of mirrors anyway. 

Will takes a step back and starts to tug Hannibal toward the bed.  Or what passes for a bed – the house wasn’t intended for two and isn’t equipped with a proper guest room.  They’d found a somewhat ratty futon in the attic, abandoned by a previous tenant, and Will’s been making do.  It’s still nicer than what passed for a bed in his first apartment.

Hannibal glances over Will’s shoulder at the futon and shakes his head slightly. “My room would be more comfortable.”

Which is a very sensible suggestion, with the big comfortable-looking bed in the other room.  But Will has a sudden piercing mental image of Hannibal spread out under him begging to be fucked on this terrible secondhand futon, because Will’s driven him that crazy.  And he’s almost sure he could make that happen.  But that’s perhaps a bit further down the road of putting theory into practice than he’s ready for, so for now he pushes just a little, to see how far he can take this, not sure if he wants to win or not.  He takes another step backwards, a hand in Hannibal’s shirt, a gentle pull. “I want you in here. This is where I’ve been thinking about you at night.”

There’s that flash of something unnameable in Hannibal’s eyes again, and this time the word comes to Will – _savage_ , is what that is.  Something barely leashed prowling behind the man’s countenance, biding its time. Hannibal’s suddenly in his space, up against him, pushing him back in the other direction against his dresser until the lengths of their bodies are pressed together.  “A compromise, then,” he breathes into Will’s ear and then his hands are at the rest of Will’s buttons, those damn hands, and Will leans back against the top of the dresser just to watch himself be ministered to by the hands he has been thinking about much too often of late.  He tightens his fingers on the edge of the wood and lets Hannibal do what he will.

The buttons pop quickly – one, two, three, four, gone in a blink and it’s only when Will sees his own bared chest moving rapidly up and down that he realizes just how fast and unsteady he’s breathing.  He starts to shrug out of the shirt and Hannibal stops him, hands closing on his shoulders to arrest the motion. _He likes me like this_ , Will realizes instantly, _he wants to undo me himself_.  Okay.  That’s not exactly a hardship. He leaves the shirt on, hanging open and partway off his shoulders.

Hannibal’s hands slide up Will’s shoulders to his collarbone, then down over his chest and stomach, the ridges of old scars and the more tender spots of new ones.  It’s something close to reverent.  Will can feel that Hannibal is almost lost in just this, hands and skin and the warmth and hardness of their lower bodies pressed together.  This exploration could go on for a long time if he’d let it, and the thought has its appeal. But he’s afraid he might lose his nerve, his control, or both. And, to be perfectly honest, Will is just feeling too wanton for slow and tender love tonight after many months of sleeping alone.  He lets out the small moan he hadn’t really been totally aware he was holding in, and reaches out for Hannibal.

“You wear too much damn clothing,” he mutters as he tugs Hannibal’s shirt up over his head.  Hannibal lets him, arms up obligingly, hair mussed as the shirt goes sailing into a corner, but then his hands are right back on Will again, cupping his face, kissing him hard and there’s the savagery again. 

He can feel Hannibal’s lips curving into a smile against his own as he responds, “My sincere apologies. I was not expecting a seduction tonight and hadn’t dressed for the occasion.  Will you let me make it up to you?”

And he’s joking but it’s also a serious question, a brief plateau to rest on and give Will another moment to back out if he’s going to. He takes a small step back to meet Will’s eyes and asks the question that way too: _Are we doing this?_

They absolutely are doing this, and Will isn’t sure how much more enthusiastically plain he can make his consent.  “Hannibal. For the love of god. Stop giving me second chances. I know what you are, and if you do not touch me right now I swear to god I will call Jack Crawford and turn us both in just so I don’t have to spend another night thinking about you on the other side of the wall.”

He’s succeeded at surprising Hannibal, again, and he’s rewarded with another smile.  “The FBI is not my preferred subject of pillow talk, Will.”

Hm. Pillow talk. He’s never actually considered what Hannibal Lecter talking dirty might involve and suddenly he’s extraordinarily curious.  “Okay, so what do you want to – oh. Fuck.”

Apparently Hannibal’s just reached the end of second chances, and of politeness.  There’s abruptly a hand unbuttoning Will’s pants and warm on his cock before he can process what’s happening, and it’s not courteous, and it’s not reverent, and it’s not a clever word game or a psychological dance. It’s just straight-up dirty and hot and exactly what Will needed. He shudders, hard, and it’s almost over right there but he worked too hard for this to let it be that fast. 

He closes his eyes and swallows convulsively and manages to regain some small bit of control over himself, only to almost lose it again when he opens his eyes again to find Hannibal watching him intently, loving watching Will almost fall apart and then pull himself back from the brink. _He likes that you have some control. It’s going to make it that much better for him when you do lose it._

Being _looked at_ like that is suddenly too overwhelming, the way eye contact often is even with Hannibal but unbearably more so when he’s also this vulnerable and this flooded with other intense sensations.  Will hears himself gasp and he presses himself harder against Hannibal, burying his face in Hannibal’s chest, almost involuntarily rocking his hips hard against Hannibal’s hand.  He’s mostly trying to hide from those searching eyes, but while he’s pressed against his chest he kisses everything he can reach, tasting Hannibal’s skin and sweat and he’d almost swear there’s a faint tang of blood except that obviously Hannibal doesn’t go around tasting like blood all the time, he’s not an actual literal fairytale monster, maybe Will’s just losing his mind.  He feels like he’s losing his mind.

“Will. Tell me what you want.”  It’s not Hannibal’s therapy voice, thank god, that would be a touch too weird.  There’s a hitch in Hannibal’s voice and Will’s flooded with a wild glee to know he’s done that, just a little crack in the armor, but he can leverage that. Sometime when he’s not on the verge of coming apart at the seams altogether.

Will still can’t quite manage eye contact but he does manage to pry his mouth from the hollows of Hannibal’s collarbone to respond. “Just what you’re doing. But – harder. You’re not going to break me.  Please. I’m almost—“

He can’t finish.  He doesn’t have to.  Hannibal takes the cue and moves his hand harder, tighter, hotter, and he presses his leg between Will’s thighs, spreading them further apart.  Will’s off balance now and he jerks his head up, but Hannibal’s other hand moves to hold him around the waist and he places a gentle kiss behind Will’s ear before murmuring, “I’ve got you. Whenever you’re ready.”  And then in time with one of the strokes of his hand, he bites Will on the neck, hard, precise, once. And Will just falls apart, fireworks behind his eyes, legs shaking and he’d fall if Hannibal weren’t holding him up. He can feel Hannibal watching, avidly drinking in every moment of his orgasm, and he can feel what Hannibal feels along with what he’s feeling in a feedback loop he’s never permitted himself before during sex.  The combination is enough to drag out the moment for what feels like forever until he’s finally spent, still shaking, and he realizes he’s been making little incoherent sounds for he’s not even sure how long.

He’s pretty sure Hannibal’s talking to him but he had no idea what words were, for a few moments there, and he’ll just have to hope he didn’t miss anything too important.  He comes back in time to hear the word “perfect,” and to feel a very gentle kiss, no hint of savagery in this one.  Hannibal’s setting Will back firmly on his feet but not really letting go, he smooths Will’s hair but doesn’t re-button his shirt, he’s putting Will back together again but only so far. Just enough that he can take him apart again later, Will realizes.

He takes a shaky breath and steadies himself on the edge of the dresser, where he’s still pressed by the weight of Hannibal’s body.  He realizes he can still feel Hannibal’s erection hard through his pants, and that he’s been a more selfish lover than he meant to be.  The thought must have been completely transparent on his face because Hannibal laughs, low and indulgent and just a bit unsteady.  “That was perfect, Will,” he repeats. “And I hope it was as therapeutic as you had intended.”

Will nods, still working on forming words, and he leans in for another kiss, slow and deep this time. “Yes. The patient is feeling considerably better. Can I, what can I do for you? When I can breathe again, I mean.”

Hannibal apparently decides that Will’s ability to form complete sentences means he’s not going to fall over, and he steps back properly now, shirtless and gorgeous and rumpled from Will’s hands. “You’re a wreck. A beautiful wreck but a wreck.  We’re going to clean you up and you’re going to come back to my bedroom, to an actual bed.  And then we’ll discuss whether to undertake any further activities tonight.  Is that agreeable?”

It’s very agreeable.  Hannibal leaves his shirt balled up on the floor of Will’s room, a shocking lapse of his usual care about such things.  Will drops his own on the way out the door after him. He kicks off his unzipped pants and leaves them in a heap nearby too.  He’s not particularly worried about leaving his room messy.  He doesn’t think he’ll be back in it tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

Will trails Hannibal into the bathroom and then hesitates, looking uncertainly toward the shower. Hannibal shakes his head and touches Will’s arm to steer him over to the counter. He feels the touch in every cell. 

“Over here. Would you hand me that?” Hannibal gestures. Will hands him the washcloth he was asking for, and watches on the verge of laughter as Hannibal runs warm water, tests the temperature, and cleans Will’s sweat and come off his hand and then off Will. It’s like being attended by a fancy and semi-nude restroom attendant in the world’s most demented sex club for rich weirdos. It occurs to Will that his life has gotten very, very strange.

He’s fairly sure Hannibal is lingering longer than strictly necessary over his body with the washcloth, but he’s not inclined to point out that fact. With his immediate hunger tended to he’s no longer desperate for touch but it still stirs something that’s been mostly dormant in him for quite a while, and he lets himself enjoy the sensation for as long as Hannibal wants to keep it up.

Eventually he’s apparently clean enough to pass muster and Hannibal puts the cloth aside and draws him in close for more kisses, deep and lingering and there are wandering hands and come to think of it, maybe Will’s still a little bit hungry after all. But whatever perverse thoughts he may still be having about reducing Hannibal to a pleading mess on his futon, he doesn’t at this exact moment fancy a fuck perched on the edge of the bathroom sink, so he reluctantly interrupts some really excellent kissing to ask, “You said something about a bed?”

And it turns out to be a really great bed, although perhaps Will would think any bed a minor miracle after weeks of the futon or the sofa. But this bed has the decided advantage of containing Hannibal, stretched out alongside him and kissing him senseless.

Hannibal seems perfectly content to kiss and touch Will, as if he never expected this much and wouldn’t dream of pushing for anything more, which is sweet. But also not what Will has in mind. He’s not completely sure how far he wants to go tonight, but he’s pretty sure he’ll know that boundary when he hits it, and he knows he hasn’t hit it yet. 

He lets a hand trail down Hannibal’s side, the opposite side from the still-healing gunshot wound because his life apparently now involves figuring out how to have sex with another man without aggravating his life-threatening gunshot injury, and tugs gently at his waistband. “Hannibal. Your clothes. We talked about this.”

Hannibal’s breath catches slightly but he obligingly lifts up his hips and lets Will remove his remaining clothes, pants and underwear flying off across the room. Probably Will’s going to have to learn to take better care of Hannibal’s clothes if this is going to become a regular thing but for tonight he just wants them gone. Hannibal’s hand is in Will’s hair, tilting his head back to plant a kiss on his jaw before he asks, “Better?”

“I think so. Hang on.” Will hates to break away but so far since this started he hasn’t had a chance to just stop and really appreciate the view. So he pulls away and sits up, taking in the sights of a really gorgeous naked man, something he’s thought about but never had a chance to experience close up, so to speak. The reality eclipses the theory. Hannibal wasn’t exactly given access to gym facilities in the BSCHI so he’s probably not in full fighting form but he’s beautiful, the way his muscles fit together more or less a work of art. He’s completely un-self-conscious about Will’s eyes, perfectly composed except for the wanting in his eyes and his obvious arousal. Will takes a deep breath. “Yes. This is better.” 

He’s not quite sure which of his senses he most wants to satiate first, there are so many options. But he moves to straddle Hannibal’s thighs and leans down to kiss him again, hard this time, looking to shatter a bit of that composure. “It seems fair to warn you that I have only the faintest idea of what I’m doing here.”

Hannibal chuckles and his hands come up to hold Will’s waist. “You’re doing quite well. I think you might be a natural. Just watch the stomach and we’ll manage, I think.”

“I may have seen a movie or two,” Will admits mostly for the smile it earns him, and then he wriggles slightly to turn the smile into a gasp as he moves down Hannibal’s body to kiss and lick at his neck and chest, steering away from the place where Hannibal’s flesh is still knitting itself back together after that gunshot. He’s annoyed about that. He suddenly wants to discover every inch of Hannibal, all at once, and limits are frustrating. But he’s easily distracted by the ridges of Hannibal’s hip bones and the new and interesting sounds he can wring from Hannibal by exploring them.

He holds Hannibal’s hips down against the mattress and sucks a little at one of those intriguing hip bones, not quite enough to leave a bruise but hard enough that Hannibal bucks a little bit against the hands holding him down, and breathes Will’s name. There’s a crack in that composure now and Will glances up to enjoy the sight of Hannibal just beginning to lose it.

The only thing he wants more than to take Hannibal in his hand right now is to draw out what he hopes is a very delicious torture for his lover, so he just brushes his fingers very gently past the base of Hannibal's cock, trailing through the coarse hair there, and then he’s on his way down and past with hands and lips, readjusting his position so he’s between Hannibal’s thighs, spreading them wider, ignoring the increasingly undignified sounds and fast breaths he’s eliciting.

He studies the inside of Hannibal’s thigh for a moment, breathing hot against the skin and tracing his fingers there but not quite touching it with his mouth, until he hears something like a sob and then he kisses where he’s been tracing and smiles hot and fierce against the skin as Hannibal's body moves in response. Hannibal's skin tastes different here, musky and heated, something closer to the wild animal that he's seen lurking behind Hannibal's eyes, and Will's own hunger comes roaring back hot through his entire body.

There's a hand in his hair again, gentle, but Will gets the message and decides he's tortured Hannibal long enough. He lets his fingers trail back up and close around Hannibal's cock, and he should know perfectly well what this feels like but it's different when it's someone else's he's holding. He's not sure exactly how Hannibal likes it but he starts with a rhythm he would enjoy and it seems to be going over well, Hannibal's eyes closing in pleasure and his free hand flexing involuntarily in the sheets.

Will hasn't had quite enough of surprising Hannibal yet tonight, so he takes advantage of the closed eyes to shift slightly and take Hannibal in his mouth and begin to lick and suck. He only takes Hannibal in partway, he's not looking to win a deep throating trophy his first time out, but he's rewarded with a full-body shudder of pleasure and the sight of Hannibal Lecter unraveling. It's every bit as gorgeous as he'd imagined, the flush and the wide eyes and the helplessness as he breathes Will's name again, a request and a prayer at the same time. This is fun. Will thinks maybe he could do this all night. But Hannibal's not going to last that long so he somewhat reluctantly removes his mouth. His hand can move faster and rougher now with the wetness he's created and he's pretty sure things are out of either of their control now, speeding toward the inevitable conclusion. He stretches up to kiss Hannibal as hard as he possibly can and then he watches as Hannibal shatters in his hands, the composure completely gone, the animal loose from behind his eyes. He kisses Hannibal over and over through the wracking shudders until his body quiets, then moves back up to lie next to him,winding fingers through Hannibal's hair idly, barely a thought in either of their heads for several long minutes.

Finally he asks, a little bit serious but mostly fishing for the compliment and knowing Hannibal knows that's what he's doing, "How did I do? For a first try?"

"Mm." Hannibal's apparently one of those "fall right to sleep" types, he sounds lazy and satisfied and practically drugged. "Natural talent, definitely. I think I'll keep you. Stay with me tonight."

They should move, clean up, put on some pajamas, something. Will has zero desire to do any of those things. He's very pleased with himself. He drapes an arm over Hannibal and nestles close, content to drift in a hazy oxytocin cloud himself. He promises, "I'm not going anywhere," not sure Hannibal's even awake to hear him, and lets himself doze off.


	4. Chapter 4

The days pass more quickly in the safe house after Will moves into Hannibal’s room and into his bed. Not that their life degenerates completely into debauchery - there are still walks to take, books to read and argue about, meals to cook, music to listen to, the FBI watch list to check. But there’s always the possibility that any moment could turn electric and the possibility keeps Will’s body wide awake at a low but insistent hum pretty much all the time. He’s aware of nerve endings he didn’t even know he had.

There’ve been times in his life when Will was barely in his body at all, mostly just existing as a brain with an occasional annoying need to be fed or turned off for a few hours of rest. This isn’t one of those times. He’s interested in all of his senses and all his drives the way he’s rarely been - sex, hunger, the exhaustion of his muscles as he works through the physical therapy exercises Hannibal has prescribed for his injuries, scents, fabrics against his skin. 

It occurs to him on more than one occasion that this must be what it’s like to be Hannibal, with little care for anything beyond immediate pleasures and needs. It occurs to him that if you can ignore the body count, this would be an extremely pleasant way to go through life.

As the days turn to weeks Will denies himself very few pleasures and Hannibal denies him nothing - he’s enjoying turning Will into a sybarite, and Will’s enjoying letting himself be turned. Hannibal occasionally ventures into a nearby city to bring back supplies, and he brings Will anything he think might please him. He returns loaded with ingredients for meals far too elaborate for two, clothes that fit Will better than the ones of Hannibal’s he’s been making do with, music recordings that he wants to share.

Will accepts what he likes and ignores what he doesn’t, and knows Hannibal is as happy by the refusal as the acceptances - he likes watching Will learn what pleases him. In the safe house there are no feelings to get hurt and there are no consequences. It’s a revelation.

There are more long nights in the bedroom, Will getting increasingly confident as he figures out how to push all of Hannibal’s buttons. It turns out that he’s good at sex with men, or at least at sex with Hannibal, which is perhaps a special category of its own.

There are afternoons in the library, Will laid bare on the sofa, Hannibal on his knees on the floor tracing Will’s body with his tongue until he begs for release. Usually Hannibal provides it. Sometimes he prefers to watch Will touch himself. 

Hannibal generally has strong feelings about appropriate activities for his kitchen, but that sort of boundary is just begging to be pushed and there’s a nice comfy throw rug that isn’t at all hard on the knees. So once or twice Will manages to pin Hannibal against the counter and have his way with him in there as well, Hannibal filling his mouth and hands and senses to the exclusion of the rest of the world.

On a sunny morning early in the third month of their time in hiding, Will’s lying in bed amid rumpled sheets, watching Hannibal pull on pajama pants. He’s enjoying the view but he’s also noting that Hannibal’s bending easily to slip the clothing on, without any apparent difficulty from his stomach wound. He eyes the wound itself, which he’d forgotten to pay any real attention to earlier when Hannibal was busy sucking him so deep and hot he’d seen stars. But he’s looking at it now, and it’s looking much better.

They’ve been refraining from certain more energetic activities, ostensibly out of caution for Hannibal’s injuries. Will wonders now how much of it was out of respect for his inexperience, Hannibal letting him take the reins again. Letting him continue to explore what he wants at the pace he wants.

Will gets out of bed and pads naked over to Hannibal, leaning in for a kiss, sliding his hand across Hannibal’s stomach to rest lightly on the scar. “That’s looking better.”

“Mm. It’s feeling better. I’m good as new, more or less.”

Will stays close, continuing to rest his hands lightly on Hannibal’s skin. “I would like to know the doctor’s prognosis. Have you been cleared for a return to active duty?”

The animal behind Hannibal’s eyes is mostly sated, but when Hannibal inhales sharply Will imagines he can see it there looking out at hi. “I probably should refrain from cliff-diving for the immediate future. But otherwise, yes, I believe I can give myself a clean bill of health for a variety of athletic activities. If there was something you had in mind.”

Will’s a little rueful. “I sort of wish you’d told me that earlier this morning.” He’s actually not at all sure he couldn’t manage a second round given even the tiniest bit of encouragement. But on the other hand he’s starving and he hadn’t quite been prepared to be confronted first thing morning with the question of whether he wants to top or bottom. Or for that matter whether they have lube in the house. He would not be at all surprised to find that some has made its way back with Hannibal on one of his shopping expeditions, but that’s another question he isn’t prepared to face before coffee.

Hannibal seems to read the indecision and laughs, unconcerned with Will’s sudden hesitation. “I was quite happy with this morning’s activities. I’ll be quite happy to do that every day if that’s all you ever want, Will. But for now, we both need breakfast. It’ll take me a while - go take a shower.” He kisses Will again, unexpectedly hard and needy for how calm his voice is. “Think about me while you’re there. Come down for breakfast when you’re ready. I'll make coffee.”

He’s out the door, off to clatter about the kitchen. Will’s left in their room, naked and suddenly breathless. He grins at the wreckage of the bed and heads down the hall to the bathroom as directed, but instead of running the shower, he starts the bathtub filling. While the water begins to rise he rummages through the cabinet for something delicious-smelling and bubbly to add to the tub while he soaks. It doesn’t do to deny oneself pleasures.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s not easy to sneak up on Hannibal Lecter but it’s not impossible when he’s in the shower, the steady thrum of water providing white noise, a cloud of steam blurring vision, scents of soap and skin distracting from any other approaching scents.

Will stands in the doorway for quite a while watching the interplay of the muscles in Hannibal’s back and shoulders as he soaps up. When he does move toward the shower he does so quietly and is rewarded by being, apparently, unnoticed. Hannibal’s eyes are closed and his expression is faintly ecstatic. If asked, Will would not hazard a guess as to whether Hannibal is thinking of blood or sex, or whether he sees any meaningful distinction between the two.

When he gets close enough Hannibal’s eyes open, perhaps tipped off by sound or scent or maybe he’s as aware as Will is of the tug between them these days, faint but omnipresent, Hannibal as magnetic north. Hannibal’s expression doesn’t change and Will is pretty sure that whatever he was imagining, Will was already a part of it. Which still doesn’t tell him whether it was sex or blood.

“For such a strong advocate of privacy you’re shamefully invading mine,” Hannibal notes, voice raised slightly to be heard over the shower spray. 

Will grins unrepentantly. “Should have closed the door. I do respect a closed door, most of the time. You leave the door open, you take your chances.”

“I’ve spent enough time behind closed doors in recent years.” It’s as close an admission as Will’s ever likely to get of what he’s observed himself, that Hannibal doesn’t particularly like locked doors or rooms without windows. Hannibal doesn’t like being in a place he might not be able to leave easily. Will remembers that from the days after his own release from Frederick Chilton’s care.

He places a hand against the glass, warm from Hannibal’s long shower, and knows Hannibal is remembering the same thing he is. This time Hannibal places his own hand against the glass, so they’d be touching if it weren’t for the thin barrier between them.

“When you were in there, you thought of me.” It’s not a question, and Hannibal doesn’t bother to respond. “Did you imagine escaping to find me or did you imagine me in there with you, where you’d have me to yourself all the time?”

Hannibal does answer that, a brief moment of thought and then: “Both. I had a long time to amuse myself with scenarios.” He drops his hand and ducks back under the spray, continuing to rinse suds from his body. “Join me?”

And that’s the real reason Will does this, of course. One of the reasons. He does enjoy the plain animal pleasures of Hannibal in the shower but he also enjoys the echoes. Hannibal behind glass, beautiful but untouchable, caged but untamed, able but unwilling to escape, waiting through an endless series of identical days for nothing but the hope of Will at the end of them. He enjoys remembering. And then he enjoys transgressing the memory.

He tugs off his shirt and pants quickly and joins Hannibal on the other side of the glass, boundary breached, touch no longer thwarted by anything but the desire to draw out his pleasure.

Hannibal steps aside to let Will have the stream of water, and Will makes an idle mental note that when they find somewhere to reside long-term once it’s safe to leave the safe house, they need a big shower, dual heads, and a really good hot water supply. He steps into the spray with a sharp intake of breath at how hot it is, nearly scalding, and he stands there for a moment adjusting to the temperature before he closes his eyes and lets it run over his head and plaster his curls down.

When he opens his eyes and finally reaches for Hannibal they’re both wet and slippery, hardly any friction between them, warm from water and steam. He pulls Hannibal toward him back into the spray so they can both be warm. He pushes Hannibal’s own wet hair back from his face and studies that face for a moment, wondering how he could ever have found it inexpressive. He knows all its meanings now and he knows that this one, to someone who knows how to read it, is love and desire and disbelief. Still, after all these weeks, disbelief that this is allowed. Will is still not used to feeling cherished in this way and he can’t meet Hannibal’s eyes, but he can kiss him, soft and lingering and inviting more.

Hannibal sighs as his hands settle on Will’s hips. “Your invasion of privacy is forgiven.” He begins to work on a trail of kisses and bites down Will’s jawline and Will feels the first stirrings of desire low in his belly. He drops his head back, providing better access, and works a hand up the back of Hannibal’s neck into his hair, heavy with water and the warm spicy smell of Hannibal’s shampoo.

He enjoys the kisses for a long moment and then uses the hand in Hannibal’s hair to pull his head back up from Will’s throat. Hannibal comes up reluctantly, the animal behind his eyes beginning to rouse, almost annoyed that Will’s stopped him. Will steps away slightly, skin protesting the loss of physical contact, and gestures toward the built-in shelf. “This isn’t purely a social call. I do actually need to get clean. Hand me the soap.” Hannibal lets out a little growl of frustration and Will relents, as he’d intended to. “Okay, fine, don’t hand me the soap. But then you have to wash me.”

Which seems to work out well for all involved. Hannibal lathers and rinses Will slowly and carefully, caring for something precious. Will watches Hannibal’s hands minister to his front, and feels a warm and tingling trail everywhere they touch his back. He thinks about how odd it is to find that Hannibal enjoys caring for him. He’d always known Hannibal enjoyed hosting but that was something different, performative, showing off and laughing behind his eyes at the tricks he was pulling off in plain sight. He hadn’t quite realized Hannibal also contained this depth of ability to tend to and care for a single person, without performance or trickery, purely for his own enjoyment and Will’s.

Hannibal’s hands are strong and when they find a hard knot of muscle in Will’s shoulder they take a break from washing him to dig into the muscle, working and loosening it. It hurts in a very good way and even Will isn’t sure if the groan he lets out is pleasure or protest, but it earns him a chuckle and a brush of Hannibal’s lips over the area he’d just finished torturing and a completely unrepentant-sounding “Sorry.”

Will can’t help but laugh in return because he knows perfectly well Hannibal’s not sorry at all and isn’t even doing a very good job of pretending he is. “You can make it up to me with a proper massage later. Right now, stop torturing me and wash my damn hair or pass me the shampoo.”

Hannibal reaches for the bottle - they’re using the same shampoo, something from a bottle so confident in its own worth that it doesn’t even have a label, which Will assumes means it costs more than his car payment. God forbid Hannibal Lecter use drugstore Suave.

Will stands patient and obedient while Hannibal lathers his hair and massages the suds into his scalp. His hands are gentle in Will’s hair but since he’s got Will turned back around to face him again, he uses his leverage to pull Will’s head back and resume kissing and licking at his throat and chest. Hannibal can only be distracted for so long. 

Will’s suddenly impatient with the game even though it was his to begin with. He presses himself up against Hannibal to make his desire very clear, on the off chance Hannibal hadn’t already noticed, rubbing himself slightly but shamelessly against his lover. 

The hands in his hair tighten and the kiss on his neck becomes fiercer, more of a bite, that one’s going to leave marks. Will doesn’t care. There’s no one in the world to see him as long as they’re in the safe house, he doesn’t care if Hannibal marks every inch of his skin.

Hannibal finishes rinsing him off quickly and starts to push him back against the tile wall, starts to sink to his knees. It’s very, very tempting. But Will has other ideas.

Reluctantly, he steps away and turns the water off, leaving Hannibal at his feet, water beaded in his eyelashes like tears, utterly ready to worship Will then and there.

It’s hard to resist but Will steps out of the shower and grabs a towel. He has to do this right now if he’s not going to lose his nerve. “Meet me in the bedroom. Five minutes or I start without you. Bring the lube if you’ve got some. Be resourceful if you don’t. I’m sure you can be creative with all that time you had to imagine.”

He hears Hannibal's hard breathing, all desire and surprise, but doesn’t look back, he’s out the door and en route to their bed. He’s pretty sure it’s not going to take five minutes for Hannibal to join him. He’ll be shocked if it takes two.


	6. Chapter 6

It takes two and a half minutes, by Will’s count. He’s almost insulted but there’s no time to be insulted, Hannibal’s on him and making up for the lost two and a half minutes the second he’s into the room, steering him back toward the bed.

Will’s not tired yet of having this effect on Hannibal. He’s not sure he ever will grow tired of it. He lets himself be pushed backward, nearly tangling his legs with Hannibal’s and spilling them both to the ground. 

It’s almost a tango without music, and Will wonders briefly and nonsensically whether Hannibal knows how to tango. He probably does. He seems to know how to do everything. Including how to kiss Will into stunned breathlessness, which he’s doing now, insistent tongue and roaming hands and whoops, there goes Will’s towel. Where does it go? Who knows? Who cares? Hannibal didn’t even bother with one and so they’re both naked, pressed together along the lengths of their bodies as they tumble back onto the bed.

They end up side by side, legs entangled, Will’s cock stiffening up again after relenting a bit during those endless two and a half minutes. He slips a hand around Hannibal’s waist to touch those muscles in his back and shoulders that had entranced him so earlier, trailing his fingernails lightly at first and then harder, Hannibal moaning into his mouth as Will’s nails dig in. 

Will breaks the kiss and moves down to Hannibal’s chest, the hair there still damp against his lips as he moves to encircle a nipple and tug ever so gently with his teeth. It took neither imagination nor much observation to learn that Hannibal likes teeth. Will hasn’t always been a fan of teeth, but there’s that ever-increasing feedback loop between them and he likes Hannibal’s pleasure so much that it becomes his own.

He looks up to see Hannibal gazing down at him with utter focus. He always has that sense when they’re together, that the entire world has fallen away and Hannibal wouldn’t notice if the building burned around them. Maybe not even if the whole world burned. This much scrutiny should be too intense, and sometimes it is, but right now it’s just fuel for the fire consuming Will.

“Fuck, Hannibal. How did you happen to me?” It’s a semi-rhetorical question and he doesn’t wait for an answer, he’s on to the other nipple, hands still on Hannibal’s back to feel his lover arching toward his mouth, but he does hear the answer.

The answer is somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and the words “Gradually, and then suddenly.”

“...Hemingway?” He’s still busy kissing and biting and sucking, but that does startle him enough to free up his mouth briefly. “Really?”

“He was never my favorite, but he does have the occasional evocative turn of phrase. Can we discuss literature some other time?”

Will isn’t particularly interested in a literature conversation right now either. “Yes. But is that how I happened to you?”

“No. You - oh!” Will’s dug his fingernails into a particularly tender spot. and he’s rewarded with a bucking of Hannibal’s body against his. “You happened to me like lightning. I could almost smell the ozone crackling off you when we met.”

Ozone. Will doesn’t smell ozone now, he smells sweat and clean skin and while he’s not Hannibal, he can’t smell lust, he imagines that he can. He imagines it thick in the air around them, a gathering storm, lightning waiting to strike them a second time.

He slips lower still, the storm winds gathering speed as he takes Hannibal into his mouth, eliciting another helpless thrust of Hannibal’s hips and a noise ripped from somewhere beyond words. This isn’t his ultimate goal so he has to be careful, but he can still have a little fun. He takes in as much of Hannibal as he can, the taste of him filling his senses, his tongue playful and maybe just a little cruel.

He teases Hannibal until he can sense he’s gone almost too far, and then comes back up for air, panting a little, not far from the edge himself. “Not yet,” he breathes, moving back up Hannibal’s body for a kiss that’s more fierce than tender. “I need you.”

He can see the effort it takes for Hannibal to come back from the brink but he does, opening his eyes, bringing his hands up from where they were fisted in the bedsheets to touch Will. “You can have anything you want. What do you want?”

“Everything.” It’s only the truth. Will wants everything, suddenly, all at once, as if the insatiable animal that usually prowls behind Hannibal’s eyes has leapt into his own chest. There’s so much time to make up for.

“Greedy.” It’s fond, amused, and accompanied by a hand on Will’s cock that makes him jerk with surprise and need. “You can have anything you want, eventually, but you have to pick one or two things at a time. Do you want this?” His hand moves, steady but teasingly slow, Hannibal knows by now that Will can’t come like this, he's just tormenting Will for fun.

“Yes.” It’s almost a hiss. “Iwantyoutofuckme.” It tumbles out just like that, breathless and fast, partly he’s afraid he’ll take the words back if he doesn’t say them now and partly he’s lost in sensation. He steadies himself against Hannibal’s chest and the words come easier now he’s given voice to what he wants. “Don’t ask me if I’m sure and don’t give me a million second chances, just do it. Please. I’ll never be more sure than this.”

It turns out to be as simple as that. Hannibal rolls onto Will and pushes him onto his back, a warm and reassuringly solid weight, reaching over Will for the small bottle he’d dropped on the nightstand as they fell onto the bed together. Will wonders for a brief dizzy second if it’s like the shampoo, something expensive and tastefully unbranded, something you have to go to a special store for and have all of the clerks treat you deferentially as you buy your lubricant with solid gold flakes or whatever the hell, and they wrap it up in a fancy box so you can take it home and fuck your boyfriend senseless with your cultured and refined and expensively slippery cock.

He’s almost laughing at the notion, and Hannibal seems to take his amusement as a signal that it’s okay to proceed, because he’s pouring something into his hand and then he’s kissing Will so deep and needy that Will almost doesn’t feel the first finger slide into him. Almost. He does let out a tiny sound, and Hannibal bites down on his lower lip and that’s the floodgate opened for a louder sound. He’d be embarrassed about it but he’s too busy adjusting his position automatically to give Hannibal better access, because yes, it turn out he wants more of this, now, and maybe he is a little greedy after all. But if he’s greedy he’s only what Hannibal’s made of him. 

Which is exactly what he sees reflected when he dares to meet Hannibal’s eyes. Himself, all but writhing with need, naked in every way, exactly what Hannibal wants him to be, exactly what he’s let Hannibal make of him. He doesn’t look away, for once, and he’s rewarded with a second finger. There’s a stretch, it’s uncomfortable, but the pleasure he’s riding, his own and what he’s reflecting off Hannibal, is greater than any discomfort. He lets his head fall back and his eyes close, shutting off some of the flood of sensation before it can overwhelm him, and the world narrows to just his skin and the places it touches Hannibal, both inside and outside his body. With his eyes closed he can't see his imaginary storm of lust and atmosphere anymore but he can still hear the high lonely whistling of winds, or maybe it's his own wordless cry ringing in his ears.

Hannibal’s patient with him, he plays Will’s body for a long time like music, lips and fingers and just a hint of teeth and encouraging wordless sounds until Will’s so ready for more he thinks he might die without it. He’s not sure exactly what words he says to that effect but it must get the message across because there’s a third finger only briefly and then Hannibal’s hand is withdrawn. Will’s eyes open and he lets out a small bereft cry, which Hannibal stops with a kiss and another whispered, husky, “Greedy.”

The weight of him on the bed shifts and Will is only bereft for a few more moments before Hannibal is lifting his hips slightly, guiding him where he wants him to be, and then there’s another boundary gone between them. Hannibal’s slow, so slow, he drives into Will what feels like a millimeter at a time, and Will isn’t sure if it’s kindness or cruelty, if he could handle anything more or if he needs more as badly as he's ever needed anything in his life. There’s the mingled pain and pleasure again, and the look on Hannibal’s face is transcendent. Will’s never had any complaints about his performance in bed but he’s never seen this look on anyone’s face. He’s not sure anyone has ever wanted him this badly, or waited this long for him, and it’s almost too much to bear. He knew Hannibal loved him. He didn't know quite how much until this exact moment.

He realizes he’s forgotten to breathe only when Hannibal tells him “Breathe, Will,” in a voice thick with a variety of emotions. When he does breathe again it’s better, his body relaxing and taking the pain with it so he’s no longer hurting. He lets himself relax deeper into the mattress as Hannibal starts to move in him, slowly and then more confidently as he’s sure Will can take it, hips rolling with the same easy sensuality the man brings to everything he does, reaching out to stroke Will with the same casual carnality.

Those stormclouds in the edges of Will’s vision are swirling in thicker now, ozone and desire and need flowing off both Will and Hannibal in waves and gathering in a crackling blood-red haze behind Hannibal’s broad shoulders. Will’s past caring if he’s hallucinating or not, he doesn’t care if the stag and the wendigo and the broken-heart-thing and an entire menagerie of his hallucinations are sitting in the peanut gallery waiting to applaud or grade their performance.

He just knows the storm is getting ready to break over him and he needs to be grounded, kept from washing away with it. He angles his hips up, taking as much of Hannibal as he can, and the slight change in angle turns out to be the final straw. Hannibal's next thrust touches something raw and needing in Will as surely as if he's cracked Will open and pressed lips to his bloody beating heart.

The storm breaks over them both, Will pierced by lightning and arching upwards, hands grasping at nothing. Hannibal's driven over his own edge a few moments later by the sight and sound and clenching tightness of Will's helpless orgasm beneath him. He drives hard into Will one last time and then lets go, wanton and uncontrolled, Will's name on his lips. The storm rolls over and through them both, electricity crackling around them, and mercifully recedes just before it's too much to bear.

Will's barely aware of Hannibal moving to lie down next to him, gathering him in, holding his shaking body as the storm fades away. He's lost so far inside himself he may never find the way out again, but there are hands stroking his sensitized skin, a voice he knows calling him back into being, lips molding him once again into something new and wild and Hannibal's.

He returns to himself eventually, at least enough to return a few of the now-gentled kisses, and to reassure Hannibal that he's all right, not broken, just driven to somewhere unfamiliar he hadn't known was in him.

They breathe quietly together then, drifting with no desire to move anywhere or be anything other than themselves in that moment. Hannibal vanishes briefly and returns with a damp cloth, cleans them both up a bit, Will pliant as a doll and once again feeling he perhaps should be embarrassed, but can't seem to find an ounce of shame in his body.

Hannibal slides back into their bed and they drift a while longer, heartbeats slowing, fingers tracing lazy circles on each other's skin. Finally Will gets it together to mumble, sleepy and wrecked but sincere, "I appear to be in love with you." 

Hannibal's lips brush his forehead. "You're not a reliable reporter when I've just fucked you incoherent. Tell me that again tomorrow and I'll believe you."

"Scientific method argues --" and here Will yawns "--for a repetition of the experiment. Probably we should do this again and see if I still love you after."

"I'm a scientific man. We'll work out a replication experiment. Go to sleep, Will." He hears the words behind the words, _I love you too,_ but he doesn't need them spoken out loud. Hannibal's been saying it a million different ways since soon after they met, it's just taken him a long time to learn to speak the same language.

Still greedy, but sated enough to wait another day for anything further beyond the comfort of warm skin against his, Will Graham drifts into deep, dreamless sleep.


End file.
